Brand New Me
by Anime1Manga2Lover3
Summary: After witnessing a murder by a powerful crime family, Alexandra Ingram must begin life anew in London, completely isolated from her past. But when she is discovered, it's up to the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to keep her alive. John/OC. New chapters on Mondays.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, any characters from Sherlock, the locations in Sherlock, etc. etc. I don't make any money from this. The only stuff I own are the characters that you don't recognize, like Alexandra / Abigail and Thomas.**

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_Alexandra Miah Ingram died at the age of 33 on September 16. She is survived by her mother, Bethany Miah, and her sister, Eleanor Ingram. Alexandra was loved deeply by her family and friends and much admired by the people she worked with. A celebration of her life will be held at 3:00 PM on Sunday, September 29 at Kearsley Mount._

I released the thin pages of the newspaper from my grip and let them fall onto the green fabric of my dress. It was over. Alexandra was dead. I gazed out the window at the countryside as the train moved steadily onward towards London. A new life was waiting for me, with a new name, a new appearance, a new story.

My name is Abigail Donnelly Bentley. I am a journalist for The London Times. My parents and younger brother live in Yorkshire. And it's all a lie. A lie that I must tell to stay alive. A lie that means I will never see anyone I've ever known again. And all because of that one man. Thomas Noonan.

Even his name chills me to the bone. He was the perfect guy. Tall, dark, muscular, and ridiculously handsome, I had been lovestruck since the moment I saw him. His seductive body and voice, with that beautiful Irish accent, had ensnared me like a fly trapped in a spider's web. I was hopelessly in love, unable to see the flaws in him, until that terrifying night that changed everything.

We had been driving in his car, on the way home from a wonderful Italian dinner, when he told me he needed to stop off and quickly talk to someone. He parked his well-kept sports car in front of a tiny cafe. Although the windows were darkened as though nobody was there, a man came out as soon as Thomas knocked. And then Thomas shot him.

As the portly man crumpled to the ground, Thomas turned back to me with a dangerous expression. I remember clutching my hand to my mouth to strangle the scream that forced its way from my lungs. He came back towards the car, his gun held loosely in his hands. "Don't you dare tell anyone." His voice wasn't full of love anymore. It was harsh and grating, a monster's voice. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."

He dropped me off at my apartment with another reminder to keep my mouth shut. I ran up the stairs and crashed through the door, the tears flowing, ragged sobs coming from my mouth as I shoved a pillow to my face. I had to tell someone.

After testifying in court against Thomas, a decision was made. The Noonans were a powerful crime family in Manchester, as everyone knew. Yes, even I knew, although I had ignored it in favor of Thomas' charms. I wouldn't be safe as long as I was alive. So Alexandra Ingram died and I became Abigail Bentley. My hair was bleached, coloured contacts were given, and an entire fake history was created.

In London I will begin anew. In London I will be safe.

I hope.

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**Author's Note: The prologue for my new Sherlock story is up! Yes, it is OC-centric. If you do not like that, feel free to click that little back button and find some Johnlock or whatever. If you like, then yay! Incidentally, reviews feed the hot pink plot bunnies. Just throwing that out there.**


	2. New Flat

**Disclaimer: If it's not the plot or Abigail, it's not mine.**

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I was beyond relieved to finally reach London. After spending hours in a tiny seat with practically nothing to do, standing up and going outside was a relief. I tugged at my white half-jacket, grateful for the warmth it provided in the chilly evening air. I retrieved my luggage, an old suitcase that I've had for practically forever, and glanced around the platform.

My instructions were to wait for someone to pick me up and take me to my new flat. I knew next to nothing about this individual, besides her name. Anthea, an epithet for the Greek goddess Hera. A dark-haired woman approached me, barely looking up from the mobile she was furiously typing into.

"Please come with me, Ms. Bentley," she instructed tersely, turning towards a black car with tinted windows, quite obviously a government-issue car. It occurred to me that they could have been a bit more subtle.

I had to walk quickly to keep up with her brisk pace, thankful for my lack of heels and dragging my suitcase behind me. "Are you Anthea?" I asked the back of her head.

"Yes." She seemed to prefer brief communications, and I didn't press her further as I pulled the car door closed behind me and settled into the leather seat. But my naturally inquisitive nature was not to be quelled for long as my mind turned towards where I was going. I tried to distract myself by recalling all the information about my new identity, but that nagging question of where was poking at my mind.

Finally, I ventured to ask the question, despite my companion's apparent reluctance to converse. "Where are we going?"

"Your new flat." Anthea didn't even bother to look up from the tiny screen.

That was descriptive. "Where is my new flat?" I questioned her further.

"221 Baker Street."

Well, that answers the where. But what about the who? Being a journalist has its drawbacks. My instinct to find out all the details was honed to perfection, and it was impossible to quell. Except for with Thomas. God, I was so blind…

Best not to think about that. I gave myself a mental shake and focused on the events happening to me. The car was slowing with no streetlight ahead, so we must be nearing this 221 Baker Street. There, my questions will hopefully be answered. I lurched forward slightly as the vehicle came to a stop. I swung my legs out of the car and pulled my suitcase from the trunk, careful not to drop it on my foot. No need to break my toe right now.

The car pulled away, leaving me standing on the curb, completely alone. This next stage was to be carried out alone, apparently. I knocked on the firm wooden door, listening to the soft footfalls of the person on the other side.

The door was opened by a motherly looking woman dressed all in dark purples. "Are you Abigail?" she asked in a kind voice.

Never before had saying "yes" felt so strange. I hadn't actually introduced myself as Abigail yet, and the impulse to explain that I was actually Alexandra was strong in the back of my mind, but I resisted. "Yes," I forced out. I'm a really terrible actor, which is quite unfortunate for my present situation.

She didn't seem to find anything amiss, however. "Your furniture has already been delivered. It's all set up in your room. Why don't you come on in and see it?" I brushed past her into the homely sitting room. Beethoven's Violin Sonata 1 in D Major floated down the stairs from an open door on the landing.

"That'll be Sherlock," sighed the older woman. "He's been at it all day, and half the night. The poor dear's bored out of his mind."

The name Sherlock was extremely familiar, but I couldn't quite place my finger on where I'd heard it before. Thinking of names led me to the realization that I had no idea who I was standing next to. "Sorry, but, what's your name?" I asked, praying that I wasn't supposed to already know.

"I'm so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Mrs. Hudson, the owner of this set of flats. And I'm certainly not your housekeeper," she added firmly. It seemed like she had had problems enforcing that rule in the past, as she had spoken it so soon.

"Of course not."

She smiled warmly. "Come along and see your new home." She led the way down to a basement flat. "It's been empty for ages, nobody wants the basement flat," she chattered. "It was such a surprise when you requested it. Here's the key to your flat." She pressed the cool metal object into my hand. "And here's the key to the outside door." She gave me another, darker key. "Make yourself at home, and tell me if you need anything!"

As she returned to her own living quarters, I pushed open the door and flipped on the light, illuminating the flat. It was sparsely furnished, not at all like the disaster-area that had been my previous apartment. An empty bookshelf, a set of drawers, a bed, a bedside table, and a desk. The articles I had written that were usually taped to the ceiling were gone, never to be seen again.

A wave of emotion rose in me. Seeing this empty, unfamiliar space that was supposed to be my home, with nothing to indicate that Alexandra Ingram existed, drove in the point that I was just like it; empty, unfamiliar, a completely different person. I sank onto the bed, dropping my purse next to my feet, my head in my hands. Tears squeezed out from behind my clenched eyelids. The back of my throat was burning and closing up as I attempted to halt the sobs that were so desperate to make an appearance.

When I remembered my mother telling me that crying is good for you, I buried my face into the pillow to muffle the whimpering noises that were escaping. It was not because I had taken her words to heart, but because I would never see the woman who raised me again. My eyes were puffy and red by the time I had finished weeping, and my body ached like I had run a marathon. But it did feel good to let out my emotions, and even better to succumb to the oblivion that was sleep.


	3. The Office

For a split second upon awakening I felt refreshed and safe. But it was soon after I registered that there was a tiny bit of sunlight peeking through the high windows before I heard a tiny shuffle in my room. The room that no one else should be inside. I lay still, pretending like I was asleep. A burglar? Perhaps, but this room is quite obviously empty. That left one of the Noonans. I felt the fear growing in my stomach, a hot, queasy feeling that made me want to bury my head beneath the covers.

"Stop insulting my intelligence by pretending to be asleep," a deep, unfamiliar voice commanded. The plus side was it didn't sound like it belonged to a huge brute of a man that could snap my neck in two with his pinky. Still, it would be good to obey him.

I slowly opened my eyes and was greeted by the sight of loose grey pajama bottoms. Not your typical kidnapping or murdering attire. My racing heart slowed slightly, although I was still scared of the intruder in my room. I looked up, far up, until I met the eyes of the man. Despite my dire predicament, I was struck by his eyes. Multicoloured, intelligent, they stared straight into you and knew everything.

"Do me a favour and tell my brother that I don't need a babysitter and that he should keep his nose out of other peoples' business," he snapped, an ugly scowl contorting his face.

His brother? So that means he's not a Noonan, thank heavens. His threateningness diminished, I was able to find my voice. "I don't know your brother," I squeaked out. Well, he could still be dangerous, after all.

He gave me a withering look. "Don't play stupid. You're one of his little agents, sent here to make sure I don't hurt myself. Denying it is completely useless. You arrived in his car, the timing is obvious, and of course," he held up my mobile. "You've had several conversations with him."

I've had all my calls and texts wiped from that phone since I left. The only person I'd contacted was the government agent… oh. Why did he stick me with someone who's intelligent, related to him, and obviously has no sense of privacy? And now I have to think up a reason…

"Oh, yes, that," I frantically tried to think of a plausible excuse. "I needed a place to stay, so he set me up here." I held my breath, hoping that would be enough. But no.

"And why would he do that? You're nobody important." With nine words, he simultaneously crumbled my excuse and offended me. Well played, Holmes brother. I only had one reason left in my lie bank.

"We're dating," I blurted out. His eyes widened in shock as he had clearly not been expecting that. In hindsight, there were probably better things to say, but it was too late. I made a mental note to inform Mr. Holmes of what I said before he was interrogated by his brother.

"You're dating Mycroft?" he asked incredulously.

It was too late to back away now. "Yes," I confirmed. Perhaps my acting skills are improving.

He dropped my phone on the bed and left the room looking like pigs had just flown around the room singing the national anthem. The second I heard him ascend the stairs, I lunged for my phone and texted Mr. Holmes - ah, Mycroft.

**Your brother thinks we're dating -Abi**

His response was immediate and surprisingly cool.

**Sherlock just informed me -MH**

So the creeper's name was Sherlock. He must be the one Mrs. Hudson mentioned last night. I suppose that's why I recognized his name. Muffled shouting from above drew my thoughts away from the stupid decision I had made. I recognized Sherlock's voice, as well as one that was completely unfamiliar. The argument broke off as a pair of feet clunked down the stairs to my room. My visitor knocked, so it couldn't be Sherlock.

I crossed the room and pulled open the door, revealing a harried looking man a few inches shorter than me. "Hello?"

"Sorry about Sherlock, he doesn't do well with people," he apologized for Sherlock.

He looked nice enough, so I accepted the apology. "It's not a problem. I'm Ale-Abigail Bentley." I caught my mistake just in time and prayed he hadn't noticed.

If he had, he showed no sign of it. "John Watson. I live upstairs, with Sherlock."

"You guys…"

"God no. Why does everyone assume that?" He shook his head at the apparently common question.

Whoops. "Sorry. I guess I just assumed that because you were nice you were gay."

He gave me a quizzical look. "What?"

I shrugged. "Isn't that always the case? If he's nice, smart, and handsome, he's gay."

John laughed. "I've never heard that before. Care to join me for a cup of tea upstairs?"

I was inclined to trust John, as he seemed to be a genuinely nice guy, but a little voice in the back of my mind whispered about my mistakes with Thomas. Indecisive, I opened my mouth without knowing what I would be saying, but was saved the trouble of answering by the alarm on my phone going off, announcing that it was now seven and I needed to get ready for work.

"Sorry, but I've got to go," I said after turning off the music. "Can't be late for work."

He returned to his flat with the assurance that I was welcome to come up for tea anytime he was home. After carefully closing the door, lest Sherlock return as I was changing, I surveyed the closet of unfamiliar clothes. As this was my first day on the job (and at _The Guardian_, too!) I needed to look professional but not too uptight, put together but not too formal, conservative but not too stuffy… Men will never understand what us women go through.

I finally settled on a grey, partially wool dress (it is rather chilly, and who knows what I'll be doing today), tights, and low-heeled black shoes. Simple yet elegant, I felt my confidence rising as I admired myself. Not bad for someone over thirty. I ran a brush through my hair, dabbed on some lipstick and what I hoped to be a convincing smile, and left the flat, waving goodbye to Mrs. Hudson (now dressed in pale pinks) as I exited the building.

Taking the Underground was the best way to get to the office, so I boarded the train and spent the next fifteen minutes psyching myself up and wishing that I had eaten before coming. Fortunately, there was a charming little cafe where I picked up tea and a bagel.

The outside of the tall, glass-walled building was, to put it mildly, rather intimidating. Up an elevator to the third floor, an inquiry to where Ms. Wall's office was, and down a hallway later, I stood before a door with a very official looking plaque on it, reading _C. Wall, Editor-in-Chief_.

Steeling my nerves, I knocked on the door and was bidden to enter. The office was neat and orderly, with few loose papers lying about. The woman behind the desk was just as neat, with quick green eyes framed by horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Ms. Bentley, I presume?" She had a clipped, official voice that fit her appearance and surroundings perfectly.

"Yes, that's me," I answered.

She looked me up and down, giving no outward signs as to whether she approved of what she saw. "I suppose you'll do. Now's not really a good time for me to be breaking in someone new, so I'll be leaving you Metcalfe."

On cue, a grey-haired man with a lined yet alert face entered her office. "I'll take her with me, Chelsea. There's been a murder." He grinned at the prospect of such an important case, ignoring the fact that someone had died.

Ms. Hall scowled. "That's Ms. Hall to you, Metcalfe."

He rolled his eyes. "Sir, yes, sir!" He gave her a mock salute and gestured for me to follow him out of her office. "You're the new girl, then?" Without waiting for a response, he continued, "Hope that a murder scene's not too gory for a lady."

_Been there, done that_, I thought dryly as the elevator descended. With all the worries, fears, and sadness already in my mind, one more thing wouldn't affect me.


	4. Tons of Blood

**AN: Sorry about the short update :-/ I was semi- lacking in inspiration.**

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Metcalfe and I walked briskly towards the flashing lights and yellow tape that heralded a crime scene. A crowd of people made of mostly of police officers blocked my view of the body, which I assumed to be lying on the porch of the boat house that stood a few feet from the dark waters of the Thames. We appeared to be the first civilians to reach the scene, as everyone else had the practiced seriousness that marked a police officer.

We drew level with the crime tape and were able to see the body. Bile rose in my throat at the sight of a naked man covered in blood that had not yet completely dried. His chest was full of stab wounds, but the worst part of this gruesome spectacle was above. His throat had been slashed at so badly that his balding head was nearly detached from his body.

Metcalfe turned to me, an indifferent expression on his face. "You alright there, Bentley?" he asked, a real note of concern in his voice. It seemed that my discomfort was showing.

I swallowed the rising nausea with difficulty before answering in a determined voice. "I'm fine."

He nodded and pulled out a mottled blue notebook and mechanical pencil, which he handed to me. "Take notes on the body. I'm going to find an officer to interview."

"Will they talk to you?" I asked. In my experience, the police tended to avoid giving out any details to reporters until days later, when the sensational news had become less news-worthy.

He smiled (again, so flippantly with a body right there) and replied, "They'll tell me something whether they want to or not." Metcalfe turned and strode off to a woman with long ringlets of dark hair and struck up a conversation.

I turned my attention back to the mutilated body, forcing myself to take in all the details and scribbling them down in my new notebook. The victim - I really should find out his name - was lying on his front with a hole in his back the size of a dinner plate. The edges looked like they were jagged from stab wounds. It seemed the killer had gotten caught up in the frenzy and couldn't stop stabbing. So different from Thomas' cold shooting…

Dammit, I would not think of him! New life, new start, all that, meant I had never heard of him. I turned my mind back to the less-painful subject of a brutally murdered stranger. To get more details, I would need to get closer. Furtively, I glanced about and was relieved to find that nobody was looking my way. I quickly ducked underneath the warning tape and speed-walked to the corpse, hoping that I would have enough time to get some good notes.

The sharp stench of blood hung heavily in the air around him, emanating from the pool surrounding his thick frame. I carefully examined the hole in his back, breathing lightly to avoid the worst of the odor. It looked like he'd been stabbed at least fifteen times. I wrote that down, along with the words "lots of blood." Running my eyes up his body, I saw what looked like a piece of a bony snake poking out of his neck.

Oh my god. That was his spine. Again I retched slightly, the bitter taste of bile mixing with the smell of blood to form a stomach-turning discord of sickening stimuli. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty, before the urge to vomit subsided. Upon opening my eyes, two people were standing and staring at me that I had not expected to see.

"Abigail?" John spluttered, shocked at my presence.. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock answered for me. "She's a reporter, obviously," he said in a scathing tone.

"And why are you here?" On my list of people I'd expect to see at a murder scene, these two were certainly not on it. And then my brain finally made that connection. Sherlock Holmes. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "Sherlock Holmes, world-famous consulting detective, lives in London, works with John!"

"He's really that famous?" John asked.

I nodded. "Oh, yes, he's a hot topic whenever he solves a crime. And of course your blog is read by lots of people, John!"

John looked flattered. "Stop inflicting my opinions on the world, Sherlock? Seems like the world wants John Watson's opinions."

Sherlock snorted. "This is pointless. There's a murder to be solved." He began to scrutinize the body, looking at every minute detail that could possibly help him solve the case. I watched excitedly, drinking in the sight that many journalists would kill to see: Sherlock Holmes in action. His eyes flicked over each tiny bit of information, finding patterns and causes and secrets.

"Tell me what you see," he told John.

John knelt beside the pool of blood. "He's in his late forties. Cause of death was severe blood loss, but the murderer continued stabbing him after he was dead, a total of 17 times in the chest, culminating in several blows to the neck that eventually severed the spinal cord. And… that's all."

"Simple, but all correct," Sherlock pronounced. From John's expression, it seemed that this was what passed as a compliment from the unimpressible Sherlock Holmes. "There's so much that you missed."

His voice changed, becoming monotonous and, if possible, even lower. "He was drunk and offered sexual favours, to which he readily agreed. The offer came from a stranger, as he tried to hide his wallet in a gap in the wall behind him. But the murderer was not looking for money, as he didn't take it. No, this person was looking for something else." He pulled out a plastic straw drenched in blood. "Blood."


	5. A Fast Deduction

Did Sherlock actually just say that the murderer was looking for blood? "This was done by a _vampire_?"

"That is highly unlikely," Sherlock said. "The murderer was a 24 year old woman named Jodie Simmons. She lives quite close by. Come along, John." He walked briskly away from the scene with nary a goodbye. John, nice man that he is, uttered a quick "sorry" and "see you later" before following his companion. I was left to wonder at Sherlock's ridiculously amazing deduction abilities.

My wonderment was cut short, however, by a tap on the shoulder from a police officer. "You're not allowed here," he said in an annoying, nasally voice.

"So sorry," I muttered, ducking away from him and the crime scene, searching for Metcalfe. I found him quickly enough, as he stood away from the crowd, clearly waiting for me. We returned to the office where we proceeded to collaborate on our article. Metcalfe seemed to be impressed with my knowledge of the murderer, and was no less impressed when he learned I had gained it from none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"So Sherlock bloody Holmes lives above you?" he asked in disbelief. I nodded. "Wow… you've really got an advantage here. Don't go looking for my job, though!" Although his tone was jovial, there was a touch of defensiveness in his voice. I reassured him that I would not try to steal his position, and I left work for the day with an article finished and a feeling that this might not be so terrible. Thomas was far, far away, I had a great new job, and two… interesting flatmates.

As I sat in the Underground, squashed between people with varying degrees of workday tiredness on their faces, my thoughts turned to John and Sherlock. Sherlock didn't seem particularly nice; more like a snotty know-it-all if you ask me. But John… from what I'd seen, he was a genuinely nice guy, something that one doesn't come across very often. And he wasn't bad looking, either.

No. No, I learned my lesson with Thomas. Never again will I go through the pain and fear.

But that thought didn't stop me from accepting the invitation to tea that John extended again when I got back. The lure of both his pleasant company and an explanation of Sherlock's mysterious knowledge was too strong to resist.

**A/N: Two things. One, I've decided to make this a John / OC story. It just seems to be a better fit, even though it seems that the majority of people preferred Sherlock / OC. To those of you who gave me your opinion, thanks! I did consider it, even if I didn't ultimately agree with some of you. The other thing is I'm sorry for the short chapter. I'm having some serious writer's block, and I'd rather give you a short, halfway-decent chapter than a long crappy one.**


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